Living Small

Weekend On Wheels

Two big news items this weekend.  First, David and I got new bikes.  Rather, David and his mom got new bikes, and I inherited his mom's old bike.  But it is the perfect size for me and after a quick tune-up and a new chain at the bike shop, it was ready to go.  David's new bike was ready on Friday night, and when we picked it up, we also purchased all the biking accessories we might ever need: helmets, locks, water bottles, tail lights, a pump, and velcro straps.

My first ride on the new bike occurred Saturday -- a trip to Hudson Mills Metropark with two coworkers.  I should preface this story by explaining that I had probably ridden a bike about ten times prior to this in my entire life.  I never learned how to ride as a child because my parents didn't try to teach me until I was ten, which was way too late -- by then I was old enough to be scared and, after a few memorable crashes (one of which involved falling into a beach volleyball pit), I decided it just wasn't worth it.  When I was thirteen, my dad took me mountain biking on one of my trips to visit him.  I don't know if he had forgotten that I didn't know how to ride a bike, or if he just figured that I would learn while we were doing it, but it turned out fine: I surprised myself by being able to just get on and ride, though I did eventually fall and scrape both knees.  I count that as Bike Ride Number One because it was the first time I was actually able to ride without having to start out with a parent pushing me.  Bike Ride Number Two was just over a year later, and was a forty-mile fundraiser for my high school marching band.  I borrowed a bike from friends and managed to do the whole ride without any trouble.  The next year, we did the same fundraiser (Bike Ride Number Three), and for some reason it was a lot harder for me (perhaps a result of hard living during the intervening year).  On this ride, our band director always started last and rode behind everyone else, "to pick up the bodies," as he put it.  The route was the bike path along the Pacific Ocean from Santa Monica to Redondo Beach and back and, on the way back, my friends and I found ourselves lying on the side of the path, wondering if we were ever going to make it home.  The band director yelled a greeting as he passed us.  That's right, he passed us.  So much for picking up the bodies.  We did eventually make it home, but the bike-a-thon was discontinued after that.  Not because of us, but I was sad to not have the chance to do better the next year.  That was 1994.  Since then, I have probably ridden about seven times: a couple of rides on the beach (though never again all the way to Redondo) with my mom, a few rides in college during the summer I stayed on campus, a ride with David around Bird Hills and a ride with my friend Sara to and around Whitmore Lake on a bike that I was storing for somebody, and riding around Key West when David and I were there in February. 

One thing I never learned on these rides was how to use the gears, or even why to use them.  So before I headed out on Saturday, David tried to give me a quick lesson, though gear shifting is so natural for him that he couldn't even remember the logic of it (higher number = harder to pedal, lower number = easier to pedal).  After that quick lesson, I hit the road with one coworker, and we met up with another about a mile down the road.  From there, it was about eleven miles to the park.  I rode between the other two and, every now and then, the friend behind me would tell me to shift gears.  He also encouraged me to try pedaling standing up, which was a bit scary -- I didn't want to lose any points of contact with that bike!  It ended up being a lovely ride, punctuated with a suprise birthday party for one of my coworkers at the park.  He was, indeed, very surprised -- it turned out that his wife had planned the party at the park several weeks ago, and then he independently planned this bike ride to the park, and it all worked out pretty well.  I couldn't stay long at the party, and my other coworker graciously rode home with me.  By the time we got home, my odometer read 30 miles, which is not at all bad for the first ride on my new bike.  Actually, distance isn't the problem for me.  Once I'm on, I can ride forever.  The things I have trouble with are starting, stopping, shifting gears, going up hills, passing through narrow places, sharp turns, and negotiating traffic.  I guess I have a lot to work on.

But the weekend's excitement doesn't end there.  The reason I had to get back to Ann Arbor, and the second big news item of the weekend, was to pick up my race packet for the For Women Only 5K race.  I got to the race headquarters just in the nick of time (and only realized when I got there that I had put on the completely wrong shoes -- good thing I wasn't racing that day!), and picked up my t-shirt, race number, and timing chip.  Following the advice of The Penguin, I tied my chip to my shoe and pinned my number to my shirt (not the race t-shirt) that night, so I would be ready to go in the morning. 

When I got in the car to head to the race, I found an envelope with my name on it on the steering wheel.  It was a card from David, with a very apropos quote from Oscar Wilde: "To regain my youth I would do anything.  Except take exercise, or get up early, or be responsible."  I spent a good two minutes laughing out loud in the car before I drove off.

When I got to the race, I realized I had pinned my number to the wrong part of my shirt, but it turned out to be a colder day than I had expected, and I made a last minute change (in my car in the parking lot) to a long-sleeved shirt, so I had to repin the number anyway.  I arrived about half an hour before the race and just didn't know what to do with myself.  I didn't know anyone there and everyone else seemed to be with a group, or at least with another person.  I ran around a bit to get warmed up, stretched, went to the bathroom (there were long lines of women waiting for both women's and men's rooms, so men couldn't get in at all), and lined up at the start line, toward the back of the middle of the pack.  And then it started, and I was running.  I didn't really have any concept of how quickly I was going; I just followed some people and passed others.  But it felt difficult, and I was wondering if biking the day before had maybe been a bad idea.  I kept going, though, and was fine.  At one point, I was right behind two women running together, and they asked if I wanted to pass between them.  I replied that I didn't know if I wanted to pass them, and they said, "go on, girl!" so I did.  On the course, people were very friendly (except for one woman who was all elbows, but she quickly passed just about everyone).  There were a lot of little girls from Girls on the Run, and a lot of moms running with them.  There was even a man running, with a race number and everything and, when I passed him, I heard someone saying, "I think you are the only man running today."  All along the way, there were volunteers cheering us on, pointing us in the right direction, handing out water, and telling us how far we had left to go.  At the three mile mark, we made the final turn and the path was just lined with spectators (many of them men with strollers), cheering us down the final tenth.  When I saw the clock, I was just amazed, and realized why the run had felt hard -- I had never run so fast in my life, though "fast" is, of course, relative.  When I crossed the finish line, I checked to make sure I hadn't lost the car key tucked into my shorts, somebody cut the chip off my shoe, and I beelined for the food table, which was curiously un-crowded.  I wondered if everyone else had gone home already.  After three glasses of water, early results had been posted, and I got my time -- 27:12, much better than the under-30 I had been hoping for!  Then it occurred to me that I hadn't stretched yet, so I did that, and by the time I finished, the food table was mobbed.  Everyone hadn't gone home already, they were just behind me (full results here).  Overall, it was definitely a fun experience, but I think it would have been even better if I had been there with other people.  I guess I either need to meet more runners or convince my friends of the joys of the sport.

Junkie

I have never enjoyed exercising, as you may have guessed from my frequent allusions to lack of athleticism.  However, from the very first lap I ran on the indoor track, I have been addicted.  The high I got from my first outdoor run only intensified it but, even before that, when I was injured and couldn't run, I gazed longingly at runners, even though, at that point, I hadn't done more than about four laps (on the indoor track, so 1/2 mile) at a time.  I know I'm addicted because I always find that, as soon as I finish a run, I want to do it again.  Last night, after finishing David's hill route, I couldn't very well run again (not just for lack of time; I also physically couldn't -- those hills are killers!), so I did the next best thing and went for a five-mile run this morning. 

I didn't realize it was raining until I had gotten about half a block from my house and, even though I would not have intentionally gone out in the rain (those of you who know me in real life know that I hate rain, hate being wet, and hate being cold -- must be a feature of having grown up in Southern California), I wasn't going to let it stop me at that point.  I needed my fix.  My first instinct was to speed up, but I quickly realized I wouldn't make it the whole course if I went too fast.  So I reassured myself that it was quite a light rain and relaxed into it, and it stopped pretty soon after that.  By the time I got home, I was only wet from sweat, not from rain.  I am, however, glad for the experience, because it made me see that rain doesn't have to stop me.  I knew that other people ran in the rain, but I figured they were just stronger and tougher than I am.  And that they probably didn't grow up in Southern California.  And they may be stronger and tougher than me, but most likely, they are just fellow junkies chasing their next high.

Racing

I think I am now well on my way to being a Runner (note the capital R): I just signed up to run in the For Women Only 5K next Sunday.  I'm already super-nervous about it, which is probably pretty silly given that I have run at least three miles six days a week for the last three weeks.  I even did seven miles yesterday, which is my longest run to date.  I think I'm just nervous about the "performance" aspect of it, and the thought of running in front of people.  I'm also self-conscious about the fact that I'm still very slow, though that is improving, as I did three miles in just under 30 minutes one day last week.  The good thing about the fact that this is my first race, though, is that, no matter when I finish, it will be a personal record!

Recently, I have been telling people that running doesn't feel like exercise to me, and I get very strange looks when I say that.  But really it feels more like practicing an instrument: I do it today so that I can do it better tomorrow.  For those readers who don't know this about me, I was a musician from the age of nine until I graduated from college.  I started out on the flute, which I kept playing (even a few times since college) and also picked up the piccolo, viola, and tuba (yes, the giant brass instrument) along the way.  I actually thought this was something that everyone knew about me, but I guess I have been a non-musician long enough now that I have friends who never knew me as a musician.  Sometimes I wonder why I never did sports when I was younger (aside from three seasons of softball, during which I think I got all of about five base hits), and then I remember just how busy I was with music.  I played three instruments, and performed regularly with two or three ensembles all throughout high school and college, and took hour-long flute lessons every week in both high school and college.  My goal was always to practice an hour a day, and when I was actually doing that, I noticed a significant improvement in my playing.  There are definitely some parallels with running: practicing regularly improves performance; there are good days and bad days, and it is important to do it anyway on the bad days to increase the likelihood of having a good day; and, of course, both require the movement of large amounts of oxygen.  But there are also some differences that I'm having trouble wrapping my head around.  To begin with, it is very hard to "overtrain" on an instrument; usually, the more you practice, the better you play.  Second, when practicing for a musical performance, you want to play just as well in practice as you will in the performance -- the goal of practice is perfection.  In running, though, it seems that you never want to have a training session that is exactly like what you will do in a race.  In training, either you run the race distance slower, or you run the race pace for less distance.  Therefore, you go into a race having never done what you hope to be able to do.  Obviously, that is the only way to get a personal record.  But with my musical background, it seems so counter-intuitive.  Perhaps I'll understand it better once I've done it.

Out of a Rut, or, An Excuse for Skipping the Gym

Yes, it's true; I skipped the gym this morning.  Actually, today is the third day this week that I didn't go to the gym before work, so it is now becoming the rule rather than the exception.  Never fear -- I'm still athleticizing, just not in the same way or at the same time every day: on Monday I went to the gym after work, and on Tuesday I had physical therapy, which I decided was enough of a workout for the day.  Today, though, I just needed a day off.  I actually really needed the day off yesterday, but I didn't realize it until I was halfway to the gym.  At that point, my rear end was dragging and my nose was running like a faucet.  But I was halfway there, so I continued and valiantly worked out.  By the end of the day, I felt a lot better, but when my alarm went off this morning, I just knew it wasn't going to happen.  I was already awake, though, so after lying in bed for about twenty minutes I got up, took a bath, did my knee exercises, gave David a calf and foot rub, ate a hot breakfast, and took a different route to work, stopping for coffee at the co-op on the way.  Just for one day, it was so nice to do everything differently and, unlike the last time I significantly deviated from my morning schedule, everything went really smoothly.  That is, until I got to work and tried to open my office with my house key!  Perhaps I still wasn't quite awake.

Sidelined

I think I have had just about the world's shortest running career!  As soon as I managed to run 1/2 mile at a time, persistent knee pain forced me to stop.  Actually, the pain wasn't even that bad when I was running, which is probably why I ran through the pain a few times before realizing that I needed a break.  But when I wasn't running, the pain was unbelievable.  It was particularly bad on my daily near-mile walks to and from work.  Normally, that walk requires absolutely no effort -- I can do it in fifteen minutes without breaking a sweat.  But in the last week, every step was just agony.  And don't even get me started on going down stairs!  I have now been off running since Monday, but the pain was still bad enough today that I went to the health center, and managed to get seen right away by someone with orthopedic experience.  The diagnosis -- patellar tendinitis.  The treatment seems pretty basic: a lot of ibuprofen, Ace wraps, hot water bottles, and no running.  I think I was definitely doing something wrong with the running because when I got back to my office and googled patellar tendinitis, I found that it is commonly known as jumper's knee.  And I certainly haven't been jumping -- at least not intentionally!  The upside, though, is that he is also sending me to physical therapy, so maybe they will teach me to run correctly.

Going the Distance

People who know me in real life, especially those who knew me before college, know that I am just about the least athletic person in the world.  I remember in middle school, dreading the days we had to do the "mile run" in P.E. class.  I just couldn't run for the life of me.  I take that back: I could run a short distance for something important, like catching a bus, but running just for the sake of running mystified me and was beyond my ability.  The rule was that if we didn't finish the mile within twelve minutes, we had to go an extra lap.  I was always doing that extra lap, and often brought patient friends along.

My high school health class introduced me to the benefits of exercise, and I even tried it a couple of times, but it just never felt good, and I started to think that I was somehow less capable of it than other people.  Starting in college, I tried to work out more, doing it for a while, until I got bored or worn out or until the time commitment just became too much, and then I would stop.  In grad school, there were some semesters when I found exercise imperative to my mental health and others where trying to work out just increased my stress and anxiety.  During my last year of grad school, my doctor actually forbade exercise.

Now with a clean bill of health, I'm working out again, as I have mentioned in earlier posts, and am trying very hard to avoid boredom.  I have been switching things up, lifting weights every other day, doing the elliptical trainer on the off days, and I have even gone swimming on a few weekend days.  I even tried reading on the elliptical, which I could do pretty easily in college, but found that I just couldn't follow the words on the page.  Perhaps my eyesight isn't as good as it used to be, or maybe it's just that The Economist has smaller print than Glamour.  But I do have a little radio, so I can listen to NPR. 

Last night, though, I found myself dreading this morning's elliptical workout, and I'm enough of a hedonist that I pretty much don't do things I dread, unless I dread not doing them even more (that was how I managed to get through grad school!).  So I decided I wouldn't get on the elliptical this morning -- I would use the indoor track instead.  I had never been on the indoor track before and I didn't even know exactly how to get to it (it runs around the top of the basketball courts), but I made the decision and told David when he came to bed.  He warned me that the track could be hard on my knees, but I reassured him that I would probably mostly walk.  After all, I can't run, as I knew very well from experience. 

But it turned out this morning that I could run, at least in small increments.  After two walking laps, I ran one.  I really didn't think I would get past the first bend in the track, but I did, and then the next one and the next one.  I made it all the way around -- 1/8 of a mile!  For many people this is nothing, but for me it was huge.  In total, I alternated laps between running and walking and went a total of 2.5 miles: one mile walking, one running, and half a mile for warm up and cool down.  The indoor track was a bit intimidating, as most of the other people on it were ROTC kids, but it was certainly more interesting than just pumping away on the elliptical, and I could look down and watch the Army and Navy kids play basketball against each other.

Today's 2.5 mile run/walk felt like a major accomplishment, and it came on the heels of another one this weekend: I swam 1/2 mile each on Saturday and Sunday.  Again, these are probably small feats for people who didn't grow up believing they were incapable of running or swimming, but for me they were giant.  Almost enough to change the way I think of myself.

Throwing Like a Girl

At the gym there is this bizarre towel system where, when you sign up for a locker (at $12 a month), you get a towel.  Every time you want a fresh towel, you exchange the old one for it at the equipment desk.  In order to avoid making the equipment guy/gal touch your sweaty towel, you throw the towel into the giant laundry basket and s/he hands you a fresh one.  I'm not always perfect with this throwing maneuver, but I usually at least get the towel over the edge of the laundry basket.  This morning, however, my throw was way short and the towel landed on the floor somewhere between the desk and the basket.  I was mortified.  I normally hate the phrase "throwing like a girl" because it is sexist and inaccurate (there are many girls who throw quite well), but my mother-in-law recently explained to me that the phrase comes from the fact that women's breasts often get in the way of their throwing arm.  Somehow, I don't think that is my problem, but the phrase popped into my head this morning nonetheless.  When I apologized to the equipment guy, he responded, "don't even worry about it," but, of course, that is exactly what I am doing!